


On the Care and Feeding of a Not-Quite-Proper Dragon

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Domestic Avengers, Dragon Clint, Dragons, Flying, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Protective Phil Coulson, bruce banner's curry, curry and rice - Freeform, flight, jellybeans, magical glowing staffs, tartare, tony stark tries hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Clint knows what he is, ok? Mostly human – not  a hawk, but it's close. It's just that he's... kind of  a dragon? Not even a proper dragon. He can't breathe fire, can't grow himself to the size of a house, doesn't raze towns or battle knights or demand the sacrifice of virginal maidens. He's not really anything that a dragon should be, so what's he got to brag about? Anyway, it's a secret he's managed to keep until another stupid glowy staff comes along and decides to stick him in his dragon scales before leaving him and the Avengers to deal with the consequences.He knew he should've stayed home today.





	1. Chapter 1

Clint knows what he is ok? He's not like, in denial about it. He calls himself Hawkeye, compares himself to the raptor bird because it's as close as he can get without sounding crazy, though to be fair, his chances of being locked up in a loony bin for talking about dragons have significantly decreased since joining SHIELD... 

Too bad his chances of being locked up in a lab for experimentation have gone up. 

Anyway. 

Point is, he's not denying it. He knows who he is, who his parents were. 

Or rather _what_ , if you wanted to get technical about it. 

Mama was a human, pure and simple, though if you asked five-year-old Clint she was an angel come to earth. Papa though, well, Papa was a full dragon, with all the rage and anger and impatience of their breed. 

And Clint? 

Well, Clint got lucky. 

He had all his mother's control, all her sweetness of temper and love of laughter and none of his father's fury. You wouldn't even know he was related to the bastard at all if you didn't know what he could do, the potency of his blood and his history and his nature. 

It was the nature part that got him into trouble. 

Everything was normal right? Going just fine. Monster of the Month vs the Avengers, Wacko of the Week with a magic stick, shouting about false faces and teaching the world to see. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a regular old Tuesday. 

Clint was pretty much sitting this one out at the moment, perched on a ledge ten stories above the ground with his bow in his hand and nothing to do but watch as Steve tried to talk Professor _Wall Street Screwed Me_ down. The guy was ranting and raving like it would save his life but thus far he hadn't actually _done_ anything, just kept going on and on about the lies the world told and how trust was for the weak, and really it was all Clint could do to stop himself from nailing the guy with a tranquilizer arrow just to shut him up. 

He'd gotten kinda bored honestly. 

Blah, blah, blah, mass corporation... Blah, blah, blah, big brother... 

_Yawn._

With nothing to shoot at it was understandable that he might have zoned out a little. Steve and Phil were on the ground with a dozen of SHIELD's finest, Tony was circling overhead, and Bruce was tucked safely away in a van trying to figure out if the glow in the scepter the guy was swinging around had any more power in it than your average nightlight, while Clint just stood around getting bored. Natasha was nearby, four flights down on the next building over, waiting in the shadows of an alleyway ready to intervene if Steve took his boy scout schtick too far and got himself into trouble... or if Clint had a minor freak-out melt-down. 

Understandable, given the glowing staff and all, but unnecessary. He'd managed to keep his secret from Loki even under the sway of the tesseract, just like he'd kept it from the world all his life. Nat knew, had known for a long time and she was the only one who knew, but he'd never told her that one good shift had shaken the last of the mischief god's magic and left him free. 

Clint had looked into the blue with his dragon eyes and felt nothing. 

Everything else, the guilt, the _pain_ , all the rest of it was burned away when three months after he was declared dead Clint's handler had appeared at the door of Avengers Tower madder than a wet cat and completely lost, hissing and spitting about a certain one-eyed director and babbling nonsense about Tahiti. 

Clint had maybe made that his pet project for the next few weeks. 

As a dragon he had more than a bit of magic in him, magic that could help heal if he cared enough, tried hard enough... loved enough. 

He'd had a tough time keeping it slow, steady, and eventually he'd had to pull it all back when Phil got suspicious, but only Nat had realized what was going on. She'd never called him on it, never confronted him, but she'd made it clear she knew every time she looked at him with bright, worried eyes, every time she frowned when she caught him trailing after Phil like a puppy, but it was fine, it was good. 

He'd known Phil didn't love him, almost as long as he'd know that he loved Phil. 

Anyway, point was, the pawn shop magician with his amber-colored scepter didn't bother him. 

In hindsight, he probably should have. 

"And _you,"_ he suddenly snarled, swinging around and hitting Clint with a piercing stare, one far too strong and angry for the distance. "You're the biggest liar of them all aren't you? Deadly danger, teeth and claws hidden behind a smile and a wink. _Hawkeye._ You're just a cold-blooded murderer beneath it all aren't you?" 

The team shouts, all of them, cries of indignation on his behalf, defenses that don't mean anything because the guy's right. Clint even thinks he hears Phil make a sound of disbelief, of anger over the comms. He stuck, his feet frozen in place and he can't breath, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears because there's no way this guy can know, this nobody. 

Dragons are one of the world's best kept secrets, even beyond the knowledge of SHIELD. 

He can't... 

Clint never learns how this man, this nobody knows things he shouldn't. 

Before he can blink, before he can flinch, the guy's baring his teeth like a damned gargoyle and the whipping the staff around like a catapult, firing a beam of golden light straight at him. Clint's whole body flashes cold and he turns instinctively, hears his friends all shout his name as he bolts for the other side of the building, but he's not fast enough. 

The beam hits him just as his boots leave the ground in a desperate, futile leap for the next building, crashing into him like a battering ram and sending him spinning off in another direction, one that ends up causing his body to collide with unyielding brick and mortar. His head cracks off the rough surface and he falls, all ten stories rapidly disappearing as he tumbles, half-conscious toward the ground, and his last thought before he crash-lands in knock-out moment of pain is that Phil absolutely hates it when he jumps.

**AVAVA**

Phil fucking hates magic spears.

He's got a pretty damned good reason, so he doesn't feel too badly about it. 

It's not like generalizing or stereotyping in this instance has ever been wrong. 

Doesn't seem to matter who it is, or why they're angry – a gleaming magical staff is never good. 

This time it's a middle-aged man, aggressively ordinary, not all that different from Phil himself standing in the middle of a small New York neighborhood, waving a stick that glows an enticing golden color, complaining about taxes and the state of Wall Street and things that he's probably never even experienced first hand. 

He's paying attention, hasn't zoned out even though this man is as dry as a desert, so he should be expecting it when things change. 

He's not. 

One minute things are trotting along just fine – Rogers is letting the guy vent his frustrations while Tony and the handful of SHIELD agents on the ground keep a close eye on him – then all of a sudden without provocation things begin to escalate. The man's voice takes on a higher, more fevered pitch and his movements become short and sharp, and then he's swinging round and staring across the street in the direction of the building where Hawkeye and the Widow are perched, waiting. 

Phil feels a chill creep up his spine.

The magician snarls, spits nasty accusations, and around him Phil hears his agents protest, hears the Avengers shout but his isn't listening. He knows the real truth about Clint, doesn't let the angry ramblings of a maniac touch him, but the cold suddenly floods his belly with a feeling of sheer dread and he's thrown backward in time, the scar across his chest flaring with phantom pain as the man raises his staff, that god-damn magic spear and twirls it above his head, flinging it out toward Clint's position and firing a beam of golden light like a gun. 

He doesn't hear himself shout. 

Doesn't hear Tony's repulsors whine, or Steve's shield ring out, doesn't hear him give the takedown command. 

Everything's gone quiet, like the deafened aftermath of a bomb going off. 

His eyes are locked on the roof across the way as he watches Clint's silhouette turn, watches him run, watches him jump. 

He hates it when he jumps. 

Dread turns to horror as Clint's boot leaves the brick just in time for the beam of light to hit him like a truck, turns him in midair and sends him toppling down past the edge of the roof. There's a clang and a crash that he shouldn't be able to hear from his position but he's a lot closer than he was, running hard even as he checks to make sure that the magician's been taken down, is secure with Agent Tomlin's knee in his back, Steve looming over him. SHIELD's got it under control, there's virtually no collateral damage, and everything is over, and very abruptly the only thing that matters at all is Clint. 

Phil's heart is pounding furiously in his chest as he runs for the alley, praying to god he won't find Clint splattered across the pavement. He's seen the man take a lot of falls, seen him get lucky countless times, get up and walk away without a scratch or hobble off with no more than a broken ankle, but it never scares him any less. 

Maybe scares him even more now. 

See, dying does things to a man, makes him admit a few things to himself he spent a lot of time avoiding, and after being resurrected he's finally acknowledged that he's head-over-heels for Clint Barton. He told himself that as soon as things stopped being weird, tense and awkward and unsure between them after he'd come back that he would tell the man. 

They haven't gotten there yet. 

Now he's suddenly faced with the possibility of a future where they never do.  
Natasha's already in the alley when he gets there, and Tony and Thor are hot on his heels. He can hear Bruce over the comms barking at medical to prep a gurney just in case, and knows Steve will be beside him in moments, but Clint is nowhere in sight and he can feel an icy panic coursing through his veins as he fights a flashback, fights the memory of what happened the last time Clint clashed with an effervescent magic stick. 

"Coulson!" Natasha snaps, and Phil blinks, jogs to her side where she's kneeling next to an overflowing dumpster and promptly has to swallow down the gorge that rises in his throat. 

There's a splash of blood staining the concrete at her feet. 

"Jarvis, scan the area!" Stark snaps from behind him, voice tinny and sharp from inside the suit. 

Phil doesn't hear the AI's response but knows the computer is collecting every scrap of data that it can from the confines of the Iron Man armor. Natasha's hand is tight on his wrist, grinding bone together, and the sharp bite of pain is grounding, helps him focus. 

"Spread out," he barks, "Search the alley. Someone get me every god-damn surveillance tape we can find, have forensics bag and tag this blood, and get that fucking staff down to Stark's R and D now!" 

SHIELD Agents scattered – they knew that tone of voice and the consequences of disobedience, of delay. In less than twenty minutes the alley had been scoured, camera feeds pulled from every angle, as much evidence gathered as possible, and absolutely no sign had been found of Agent Barton, of _Clint_ outside of that small, dark stain on the pavement. 

"Let's get back to the Tower," Natasha says quietly, her voice small and steady and controlled. Phil wants to snap, wants to snarl but for that, but for how tightly contained she is, how practical. "If Clint is injured, if something is wrong and he can still walk, that's where he'll go." 

Phil clenches his teeth, knows that she's gone the same place he has, to that place where the fear is all-consuming and images of blank, ice-blue eyes stare out of a friend's face and you wonder if you'll ever get them back again. 

She's right, he knows she's right, but he still needs to be dragged away. 

Natasha grips his wrist tight, forces him to turn away and walk to the end of the alley. Steve squeezes his shoulder silently. Thor pounds him on the back and vows to find their friend Hawk in his booming, thunderous voice. Stark for once is silent, but he walks at Phil's side, one step behind like some kind of honor guard. 

He wonders what he looks like, that they're acting like this, wonders if he's given himself away. He's not supposed to show favoritism, not to his agents or the Avengers, but right now, in this moment, he couldn't care less. 

He's gone up against a god to get his specialist back, woke up from the dead prepared to raze the world and Asgard to the ground to get him back. 

He's prepared to do it again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Shit, shit, shit, move, hide, shit, shit, squirrel, run, hide, shit, shit, shit..._

Scooting underneath a soggy cardboard box at the mouth of an abandoned alley, Clint tries to focus, tries to clear his head. It isn't easy – his thoughts are hazy, clanging around inside his brain like bright, shiny pinballs bouncing in all directions, the panic and his baser, animal instincts getting in the way. Everything inside him, human and dragon, are screaming at him to get the hell out of there, to get somewhere safe, and the streets of New York in broad daylight are _not safe._

Shivering, he crouches low to the ground, waits for his moment, then blitzes out across the sidewalk and slips underneath a car parked against the curb. Catching his breath, he's careful not to wheeze, lest he send sparks skittering out across the pavement, but that's hard too because he's scared and he's hurt and his hearts are absolutely pounding inside his ribs. 

Whatever the jerk with the staff had shot at him hit him just as his boots left the rooftop, and as he'd somersaulted in midair he felt the change ripple over him, like a soul-deep shiver that rattles your teeth. He might've gotten his wings out fast enough to break his fall if he hadn't clipped the fire escape on the way down. He'd felt the delicate bones in his left wing snap, heard it, and then he'd been hitting the pavement below with a painful, jarring thud. Bruise, bleeding, disoriented, he'd lain there just long enough to get up his courage, grit his fangs, and get the hell out of dodge. His head was still together enough to know he couldn't just lie about on the concrete waiting for the first person to come along and scoop him up into a cage, so he'd hobbled down the alleyway as fast as he could, dragging his limp wing behind him until he'd found a dumpster big enough to hide behind. 

He can't change back. 

He'd tried, failed, tried again before it finally sank in that this wasn't a normal shift, that it wasn't like all the other times, smooth and silky like slipping into a pool. 

It was aching and painful and _violating,_ his body this time instead of his mind and he's angry, furious that once more choice has been taken from him. He hisses, spits, snarls, snaps his teeth, then squeals when he bumps his broken wing against the underside of the dumpster, jumping when a loud bang sounds nearby. It's then that the fear overwhelms him, sends a bolt of panic racing through his little body and pushes him forward in search of a safe place. He knows a few, can sense them nearby, but they're not exactly easy to get to. 

It's New York, sure, but someone might still notice a purple, winged dragon trotting through Times Square, even a little one. 

Snorting disgustedly, Clint twists, nuzzles at his broken wing, flicks his forked tongue out over the lacerated skin between the bones. It hurts terribly but the bleeding's stopped, his advanced healing already kicking in. By the time he gets back to the Tower the tears in the delicate membrane should be sealed, though the thin, hollow bones will take much longer to mend. He's panting, the pain a point of sharp, hot clarity as the sounds and smells and movement of the city press in on all sides, too loud, too fast, too much and he just wants to go _home..._

He can't, he shouldn't, but he doesn't know where else to go, not like this. If he could just _think_ he might be able to come up with something better, but it's hard to hold on to human thought and he still can't turn, can't change. His cool reptilian hindbrain is demanding certain things, slowly uncurling itself from where it's been hibernating since the last time he'd let it out, and instinct has never been something he's fought in his dragon state. It's kept him safe, kept him alive, is there for just that purpose, and he's too hurt and too panicked and too upset to do anything but follow those instincts. 

He doesn’t know how he makes it across the city to Avengers Tower. 

He thinks maybe he blacks out, or maybe his human brain just decides to take a backseat and let the dragon drive for a while. 

He supposes all in all it doesn't really matter – he's here, hiding under some of the fancy shrubbery around the back entryway, and there are no mobs with pitchforks storming after him. 

So he must be ok right? 

Only he can't figure out how to get in. 

If his wing weren't busted he could fly up – he keeps his bedroom windows open and is known to leave the roof-access door propped open – but considering the fact that it's still killing him and he can't move it away from his body without a flare of excruciating pain, he figures that's a no-go. 

Same with just walking in the front door – oh sure, eventually the commotion would die down and _someone_ would be smart enough to figure out what had happened, but that's basically everything he doesn't want. He's kept what he is a secret for a reason, lots of reasons actually, and none of that has changed now that he's stuck this way. 

Stupid glowy staff. 

Oh if Clint could only get his teeth on that thing... 

Clint gulps down the deep rumble that's threatening to bubble up out of his throat, clicks his claws irritably against the blacktop. The tip of his tail is switching back and forth, his tongue flicking out to taste the air as he hisses nastily to himself, anger prickling beneath his scales, and that's as foreign and as frightening to him as anything else. 

He's not like this, not like his father, not _vicious._

Sure, he would've liked to put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, but this is different isn't it? 

Wanting to bite and claw and disembowel... 

Clint doesn't even hunt _rabbits,_ something that earned him several beatings from the old man as a child. 

If he could blush he thinks he might be doing it now, embarrassed in turns both because he is feeling those things now and because he _hadn't_ then. 

Couldn't be human, not completely, but really what kind of dragon is he anyway? 

Not a proper one, that's for sure. 

He's not huge and strong and bulging with muscle; instead he's slick and sleek and nimble, tiny compared to what his father had been. He could only grow himself to about the size of a small dog, a beagle maybe, and he can shrink down so much that he can fit in the palm of Natasha's hand. He can't breathe great gusts of fire, only make sparks and smoke and small bursts of flame, and he spoke in trills and warbles and whistles instead of snarls and barks and deafening roars. His appetite doesn't change all that much - he eats _more,_ yes, but he still prefers coffee and sweets over raw meat and still-beating hearts. 

Christ, he's _purple_ for god's sake, what kind of a dragon is purple? 

Sure, _he_ likes it, lovely inky purple so dark it's nearly black in some lights, shiny, glittery bright, but no proper dragon is purple. 

No, dragons are black or brown, icy grey or muddy greens, big and loud and scary. 

Clint is... 

Clint is not that. 

Chuffing, he shakes his little dragon head, tries to focus on the problem at hand – how to get into the Tower. Pushing himself to his feet, exhausted, aching, he slinks along beneath the bushes, keeping to the shrubbery even though it's full of thorns and scratching along his scaly sides. Eventually he comes to a metal grate, a heating conduit that leads out from the interior ductwork, and if Clint could facepalm he would've. He's spent more time crawling around SHIELD and Tony's ventwork than nearly anywhere else, and he thinks it telling of his condition that he hadn't thought of it before. 

Sitting up on his haunches he gets his claws under the edge of the grate, applies his teeth, pulls until the metal twists with a horrific screech and comes away from the side of the building. Stupidly smug, Clint slinks into the vent with a defiant flick of his tail and scurries forward, the tips of his talons clicking against the aluminum. Right, right, left, right, up, up, up and it takes forever because this stupid tower is like, ninety five stories tall and he can't exactly hop the elevator, but once again his line of conscious thought fades into the background, and the next thing he knows he's found himself wiggling through a heating vent into Natasha's room. 

Nat's good, Nat's safe, and she knows already what he is. If he had a choice he might still go straight to his own suite, sleep this off, but he's hurt and stuck and he needs help. Nat can do that, Nat won't tell, and he doesn't want her to tell because regardless of the fact that the Avengers are a team now, as near to family as anything he's ever had, regardless of how he feels about certain Agent-type members of that team, he doesn't want them to know. 

He's already a freak, the circus dropout, the only 'human' member on the team, and he wants it to stay that way thank you very much. He doesn't want to be studied by SHIELD or tested by Bruce and Tony, doesn't want to have to explain what he is to Steve and Thor or... 

Or have to face Coulson. 

Hell he's a dragon, not even a proper dragon – what's the man supposed to do with that? 

Best case scenario it will only disappoint him, hurt him that after all these years, everything they'd been through, Clint has never told him. 

No, Clint doesn't want him to find out. 

He'll turn back eventually – he has to – most magic doesn't last forever. 

He'll be ok till then – he's tough after all – and Nat, Nat's good. 

Smart. 

Safe. 

She'll figure this out. 

She'll help him. 

She probably won't even laugh at the predicament he's gotten himself into. 

She's sweet like that. 

Rolling his eyes, Clint sniffs, slinks toward the closet where he noses open the lid of her hamper. Hopping inside, he curls up into a little ball, snuggled down into one of her soft, cotton sweatshirts and surrounded by her scent. He's careful to keep his claws out of the fabric and his broken wing tucked neatly against his side, he settles down to wait, but it only takes seconds for the pain and the fear and the exhaustion to drag him under .

**AVAVA**

He's panicking.

It's quiet and contained and you can't see it, but he's panicking. 

Of course, with the way the Avengers are silently staring at him, maybe you can see it. 

Phil bites down on the inside of his lip, on the urge to bounce his knee or tap his fingers. He'd be pacing if it weren't for the confines of the car, accustomed to movement and wide gestures in situations like this, when he was either standing on deck in front of the smart boards planning a retrieval or leading the charge of the assault team. His brain is already in planning mode, ready to start dishing out orders as soon as they arrive at the Tower – primarily to Thor and Tony. He wants them both down in R and D checking out that staff as soon as possible. 

First though, first they need to... 

"Fan out," Natasha says quietly, and Phil blinks surprised to find that they're already parked in Stark's underground garage, safety belts clicking as the Avengers disembark from the SUV. "Check his hiding spots." 

"Stark, take the labs and talk to Jarvis," Phil hears himself bark, more sharply than he means to as he goes into autopilot and slides out of the car, shooting his cuffs. "Thor, check the roof. Steve can take the range, Bruce the kitchens. Natasha?" 

"On it," she murmurs, and then she's gone, through the heavy fire door into the stairwell. Phil's under no illusions that Clint has shown him all his secret spots, nor that he's shown them all to Natasha. He'll have only disclosed one or two to each of them, so there's no risk of them heading to the same spot and wasting time. 

Stark catches an elevator down with Steve and Thor steps back outside and raises his hammer, shooting up toward the top floor, while Phil heads for Clint's personal suite. It's only one floor above his own, which he'll be checking on his way back down to the common floors. Clint has a habit of crashing on the couch in his make-shift office, which is really the only reason he has a couch in there in the first place. He thinks it's pretty telling that he was willing to go so far as to ask Stark for something, but it had been worth it the first time a pale, dark-eyed archer had slunk in and quietly curled up on the cushions while Phil did his after-action reports, fresh bandages still jarringly white against his tanned skin. 

Unfortunately, he's neither there nor in his own suites. 

Phil doesn't know why he's so disappointed – there was nothing to say that he would be, nothing to say that he was even still on the _planet,_ or even... 

Phil stalls in the hallway, clenches his fists and his eyes shut and swallows hard. 

No, he won't even think it. 

Clint's tough, a fighter, a _survivor,_ he's proven that. 

Phil just has to find him, and he'll be fine. 

He'll be... 

"Fuck!" 

Cursing quietly under his breath, Phil refrains from putting his fist through the drywall the way he wants to and hurries along the hallway, takes the elevator back to the common room. Stark, Banner, and Rogers are all standing about in the living area, standing amongst the furniture like they're not sure what to do with themselves, whether or not they're allowed to sit. They all look up when Phil comes in, eyes so hopeful that he doesn't need the forlorn head shakes to know they haven't found their wayward archer either. 

"All right," he says heavily, smoothing down his tie. "Stark, I need you on that staff, Thor, any ideas on your side of..." 

"Found him!" 

Phil's heart judders in his chest, relief making his knees go watery as the elevator doors swoosh open and Natasha calls to them across the room. There's too much bald emotion on his face when he turns but he doesn't care enough to mask it, fully expecting to see the redheaded assassin hauling a bruised and bleeding Clint along behind her, but that's not what greets him. 

No, it's Natasha, still in her catsuit with one arm stretched out in front of her, gripping something small and purple by the scruff of its neck as it wriggles and writhes trying desperately to free itself. 

That's... 

"Holy shit," Stark says in amazement. "That's a dragon." 

The little reptile makes a high-pitched whistling sound, sharp enough that they all clap their hands over their ears, and when Natasha drops the thing on instinct it flops gracelessly to the floor, hissing and spitting a burst of tiny sparks before it shoots across the room and disappears beneath the edge of a couch with a flick of its spiked tail. 

For a moment silence reigns as they all stare dumbfounded, unsure that they'd really seen what they'd just seen, until Stark breaks the silence by repeating his previous statement, a little less elegantly this time. 

"That..." he stumbles, pointing at the base of the couch. "That's a dragon." 

Natasha sighs, shakes her head. 

"No," she denies, taking a step toward the couch. "That's Clint."


	3. Chapter 3

"Clint, _please_ come out." 

Clint hisses, curls himself up a little tighter beneath the couch as Natasha's questing hand sweeps past, mere inches from the tip of his tail. Red-headed snake, bad, bad, _bad._ She'd told, she'd _told them,_ they _know._ He can hear them moving around out there, shifting their weight, had seen their pale, wide-eyed faces before he'd zipped beneath the couch into the safely dark. He can't come out, he _won't_ come out, no matter what she says. It's not fair, it's not _fair_ – they weren't supposed to find out! 

"So let me get this straight," Stark muses, and Clint draws his lips back off his teeth as Natasha sighs heavily, withdraws her arm and sits back on her heels. "That's what the staff did? Turned birdbrain into a _dragon?"_

_"No,"_ Nat insists, and oh she's irritated, and frustrated and angry and guilty, all of it heavy in her voice and Clint's tongue flickers out with a grating, rattling sound, a snide little snicker. "Clint can change all on his own. But apparently now, he can't change back." 

A stunned silence follows and then Coulson speaks and Clint flinches away from the sound of his voice, curls in on himself in shame and misery. 

"Explain." 

"He's a dragon Coulson," Nat sighs, this time fed up and maybe just a little bit sorry. "Half-dragon anyway. He can change forms at will, anytime he wants, but he wouldn't have done it in the middle of a battle. Wouldn't have done it _here._ Or if he had, he would've changed _back._ I can only guess that the staff forced a shift, and that now it's keeping him stuck." 

A heavy beat of stunned silence passes. 

"He never said..." 

Clint whimpers, a trilling little warble that draws too much attention but there's nothing he can do to stop it. His whole body droops, his three little hearts all squeezing inside his chest, and if he could cry as a dragon he would. He'd never wanted this, never wanted Coulson to find out; at first because it was a secret he couldn't bring himself to tell and later because he didn't want the man to know he'd lied for so long. Now it's all come out and what is he supposed to do, how is he supposed to... 

"Clint?" 

Clint freezes up, his muscles going tight as Phil's voice floats quietly down toward him. He can just see under the edge of the couch, about an inch between the floor and the skirt, and through the gap he can see Coulson's slacks and shoes. The man has gone to his knees beside Natasha but isn't reaching for him, isn't trying to drag him back out like she had. 

Clint lets out a long, sad little whistle, unable to stifle a reply. 

"Clint it's all right," he murmurs, but Clint knows it's not. 

Phil hardly ever calls him Clint, instead calls him Barton or Hawkeye or Agent. He's only Clint when he's been tortured or drugged, when he... 

Natasha's catsuit creaks and Clint hears her get up, hears her shooing the other Avengers away into the kitchen, but it's Phil that's taking up all his attention, Phil that he's focusing on, the sight and sound and smell of him, the electric _knowing_ that is Clint's other, dragon instinct. His body actually aches with the pain of what he's done; crushed more than anything by the weight of the lie he's told to the man he's maybe-kinda-hopelessly in love with. 

"Come on Barton, you're safe here," Phil says gently, the barest edge of teasing in his voice, and beneath the couch Clint trembles, his head sinking down to rest on the cool hardwood as he fights the instinct to creep forward, to slink into Phil's lap and hide. "I always knew you'd do pretty much anything to avoid medical but this is taking it a little far, don't you think?" 

Clint whistles and warbles again, absolutely miserable. Coulson's trying hard, he knows, but like this, in his dragon form, he can scent the man's distress, rich and salty on his skin, like roasted peanuts. He's nervous, or afraid or hurt, and it doesn't matter which because none are acceptable, and any of them are all Clint's fault. This wasn't what he wanted, was something he never wanted, and now he doesn't know what to do or how to move forward, how to fix it. 

It's hard, and it hurts, but it's not enough to drag him out from under the couch, not until Coulson goes and cheats, does something he never does and drops his voice, low and hesitant and vulnerable. 

"Clint please? I know this isn't what you wanted, but you're hurt and that was... that was some pretty fucked up déjà vu out there." 

Oooo, that's not fair. 

That's not even close to fair, ok? 

Clint knows exactly what the man's thinking, knows that the whole reason he went after Loki in the first place was because of that stupid staff and what he'd done to Clint. See, Phil had made a promise to him, years ago when he'd first dragged a skinny, angry, mistrustful Clint into SHIELD. He'd promised him that no matter what, no matter where or when or how, Phil would always come for him, and if there was one thing Phil Coulson was good for it was keeping his promises. He'd gotten himself killed keeping that promise, come back from the dead to keep that promise, and now Clint's just gone and reminded him of the whole thing, gotten himself shot by some stupid glowy staff all over again. 

Well if anything could've gotten him out from under there it was guilt, and the bone-deep, pathological need to please this man, to reassure him. 

Letting a tingle ripple down over his scales from nose to tail, Clint shrinks himself down as far as he can go, size to rival a parakeet. It's stupid and it's silly and not for the first time he wishes he could be bigger, even just the size of a golden retriever because at least then he wouldn't feel so ashamed. He could bare his teeth at Tony when he inevitably cracks a tasteless joke, or stomp his feet hard enough to make the furniture shake, and nobody would laugh. 

But he can't, and he never could, so instead he goes small, tries to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, and if he's lucky Nat will scoop him up and spirit him away somewhere, put him into the pocket of her coat or back inside her laundry hamper where nobody can see. 

He thinks she owes him that much after all of this, even if he does understand. 

Slinking forward, Clint keeps his eyes on the floor and his head ducked, crawling shame-facedly out from beneath the couch and huddling near the heavy oaken foot at the corner. He gets himself curled up tight, low to the floor with his tail wrapped around his toes, sighing forlornly as he sags with exhaustion and humiliation and regret. 

"Oh," Phil breathes and Clint flinches, tucking his wings closer to his body despite the pain. "Look at you." 

Blinking, Clint looks up sharply, shocked by the awed, breathy quality of his tone. That's not right, doesn't make any sense because Clint knows what he is, knows how silly he looks, but Coulson's staring at him with the same warm, caring eyes he's always had and Clint feels something hot and scary wash through his belly. 

"You're never going to stop amazing me are you Hawkeye?" he murmurs, his eyes tracing all the lines of his body, and Clint can't help but perk up just a bit, his wings and tail lifting as he tilts his head curiously. 

It's not fair – he's not ready or willing to be drawn out of his sulk just yet, but he can't help it. All he's ever really wanted for most of his adult life was to make Coulson proud, to make him happy, and those desires are only magnified like this, with his baser instincts urging him forward like a fire in the pit of his stomach. It's a _need_ to please this man, to give him what he wants at all costs, one that will be literally unhealthy for him to ignore. 

As it is all Clint wants to do is preen under his gaze, which is stupid and vain and so at odds with his angsty little freak-out that he's just plain disgusted with himself. 

"Clint?" 

Crap, he's drifting again. 

So hard to pay attention like this, to stay cognizant and aware of what's around him. Easy instead, to slip into his true dragon state, to let his mind go. To lose his words, all human language and resort to nothing more than action and instinct, to let the reptile in the back of his head rule. It's not mind control, not hypnosis like with Loki; rather it's like slipping into his tac suit, familiar and powerful and as much a part of himself as anything else. Makes him feel the predator he is, the temptation to run and fly and hunt, to indulge in all those things he works constantly to keep locked away in its neatly labeled box. 

But Coulson's waiting, holding out his hand, knuckles pressed flat to the floor looking hesitant and hopeful, and he's _waiting_... 

He's making a far bigger choice than this, he knows, but he can't stop it from happening. 

Unwinding, he creeps forward slowly and lifts one little, taloned foot, and then it's his turn to hesitate but Coulson doesn't flinch, so he slinks slowly up into the man's hand and sits in his palm, warm and dry and steady. His hearts are pounding even though the ride is smooth as Coulson gets easily to his feet, and he has to stop himself from gripping his thumb with his claws, from holding on. 

If he hadn't wanted to be picked up a moment ago, he doesn't want to be put down now. 

Coulson carries him over to the kitchen where the Avengers are all sitting in a group around the long, narrow island and places him down carefully on the marble surface. Slithering onto the cool surface Clint immediately misses the warmth and safety of being curled in Coulson's palm, feels like he did the last time he'd been handcuffed to a steel table and thrown under a single, bare interrogator's lightbulb. The men around him, his friends, his _family_ are all staring like they've never seen him before, like they don't know him at all. 

And... maybe they don't. 

But that's his fault isn't it? 

He supposes, in a way, he deserves this. 

"Oh my god, he's adorable," Tony finally says, sounding perfectly horrified and breaking the thick, heavy silence. 

"Shut up Stark." 

Clint and all the rest of them startle at the vehemence in Coulson's voice, the sharpness of his tone. Clint hasn't heard him talk to Tony (or about Tony) like that since the beginning, before the Avengers when he was still playing the selfish bastard and making himself as big a pain in SHIELD's ass as possible. A bolt of static electricity flickers over his scales and a wisp of something tickles at his nose that smells almost like defensiveness, protectiveness, but he can't be sure. 

He's probably just sensing what he wants to hear and see and smell, and that's not fair either. 

"Clint are you all right?" Bruce asks, his eyes wary as he watches Phil and Tony stare each other down, words calm and easy as he attempts to diffuse whatever's going on. 

Tony eyes Phil sharply before nodding once, smirking, like he's figured out whatever he thinks he needs to know but Phil just rolls his eyes, epic and deliberate, and if Clint wasn't so nervous he would've laughed. Instead he turns to Bruce, gives his best affirmative little chirp, then, when Natasha glares, carefully lifts his wing away from his body as best he can. 

Phil looks to Bruce, lifts an eyebrow, but the man just shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender. 

"I'm not this kind of doctor either," he says, causing Phil to scowl. 

Leaning forward, he gives Clint a questioning look before slowly reaching out and taking his wing very carefully in his hands. It hurts fiercely, the thin, fragile bone still broken clean through, and Clint's entire body shivers as Coulson very gently extends the wing, smoothes it out over his palm and traces a fingertip along the edge. It tickles in a very nice way and clashes nauseatingly with the pain, causing Clint to jerk. He immediately feels bad about pulling away but Phil is murmuring apologies and moving to support the delicate wing more carefully. His cheeks have gone pink, which Clint finds terribly fascinating, and if he weren't being held and examined he might have crawled a little closer for a good sniff. 

As it was, Natasha was stepping up beside him from where she'd been rifling in one of the kitchen drawers, a paper packet of extra chopsticks in her hand. Snapping them in half smartly, she handed them over to Phil before pulling a roll of athletic tape from out of nowhere. As careful as they are Clint still squeaks shrilly when they splint his wing, growling under his breath until they've got it all taped together and bundled tight against his side. Bruce threatens to wrap him round with an ace bandage like a sling before Natasha shakes her head, explains about his accelerated healing in his dragon form. He's grateful, given that the tape is already itching the leathery membrane of his wing – he would hardly tolerate a bandage very long. 

Sitting back on his haunches, Clint gives Natasha a little trill of thanks, chirping when she strokes her fingertip over his head and down his neck, tickling his spines. The Avengers are all still standing grouped around him, staring, but he can't physically maintain the panic for much longer. He's too tired, physically and emotionally – the spell and the injury and the reveal all taking too much out of him, demanding too much from his body and his mind. It takes less than a minute for him to start listing to the side, something that everyone notices. 

"Well," Stark sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking Clint up and down. "What now?"


	4. Chapter 4

Apparently what happens 'now' is a hell of a lot of talking, talking that makes Clint horribly anxious and afraid. It doesn't feel good, being so small, having people loom over you and talk about you like you aren't there at all. He doesn't pick up all of it, his mind still not quite as clear as it normally was in his human body, but most of it is stunned surprise, shock, disbelief that this is real, that he can do this thing and that he never told them. There's accusation edging in on their tones, their scents, even though they're trying to keep the whole discussion calm and easy, and it makes Clint's spines bristle. This was half the reason he'd kept it all a secret, and it doesn't help when Tony gets loud and obnoxious and cruel. 

It's not intentional of course. He doesn't mean it. It's teasing, like he always does, he just.... doesn't know he's hitting Clint's trigger issues. 

"So all this time he's been bitching about being the only human on the team and he's not," he complains, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Well that hits Clint right in the chest, _hurts,_ and he flinches, slinking to the edge of the counter without meeting anyone's gaze and judging the distance to the ground. From the corner of his eye he sees Phil reach for him but he quickly scoots away, hot with shame, and his wobbly, ungainly descent to the floor doesn't help. 

"He _is,"_ he hears Natasha insist as he scuttles back under the couch, seeking out the enclosed, dark space, the safety of it, so very like a den or a cave. "When he's in his human body he's human; human eyes, human brain, human heart." 

There are murmurs and mumbles, things he can't quite hear but he's not sure he cares – his bow, his aim, his eyesight - those things are all he has in the world and he's worked hard to earn his title. His dragon blood, it has nothing to do with Hawkeye but it will now – they might not say it but they'll be thinking it. The pride he takes in what he can do – in this moment it's gone, stripped away from him in a blink because of what he is, what his father was, and it leaves him very nearly broken on the floor. Curled up in the shadows he holds himself as close as he can, wings wrapped awkwardly around his own shivering body as he listens to his legacy shatter, because no matter what Nat says it won't make a difference. 

He feels like a cheat, even though he knows he's not, because from now on that's what they'll see when they look at him. 

It wouldn't be an issue if he'd spoken up – they're basically all enhanced humans out there, even Stark with his giant brain – but because he'd kept silent, because he'd complained, he looks like the worst kind of hypocrite. 

"Clint?" 

Phil's voice is close but Clint doesn't look, instead turns his head away and curls up even tighter, his eyes clenched shut. He doesn't deserve the comfort of having his handler near, can't bear to see judgment or disappointment on his face. The conversation has moved, tickles at the edges of his hearing – the staff, the forced shift, the fact that Nat really doesn't know much more than she's already shared – and then goes sharp and pointed again, Bruce wanting to get a look at him down in the labs, Tony wondering about his anatomy and the physics of the change and what kind of a dragon is he anyway? He's soft and small and round, nothing like what the genius would have imagined, and fuck Clint would _cry_ if he could. 

It's not his fault, he _tries_ to be good, what more do they _want_ from him?! 

"You have always claimed that there are no such creatures in Midgard," Thor says incredulously, and Clint shrinks in on himself, oddly enough shamed the most by having been seen like this by the Asgardian god, who has known such huge and wonderful things. How small and fragile he must look, how sad and sickly with his scuffed and bloody scales, chipped ad ragged all along the edges from his fall, his limp and tattered wing, his round little belly and short legs. 

"Why then should you be surprised?" the god continues. "Surely you are not disappointed in our friend." 

Clint lifts his head, cocks it curiously. 

The god certainly isn't defending him? 

"Young Clinton has proved himself a worthy warrior and loyal brother," the man booms, his tone disproving. "Though he may be of royal blood, this has not changed." 

"Royal blood?" Stark scoffs, and the sound is grating on Clint's nerves. 

"Is not a dragon still a form of magic in Midgard?" Thor asks. "Are they not worshipped and revered? You have seen yourself the majesty of our friend's second form – surely it can be nothing but miraculous to you." 

Clint doesn't want to hear anymore. All Thor's championing really does is make him feel his flaws all the more, though his conscience is somewhat uncomfortably soothed knowing that at the very least he meets the alien god's expectations. 

"You listening under there?" 

Clint shivers, having miraculously forgotten Phil's proximity in listening to the rest. He can see the man's coattails beneath the edge of the couch, realizes he's sat down on the floor with his back to the leg nearest Clint's position. It's typical of Phil's ability to read him, to know what he needs – the privacy and the distance to make his own decisions without pressure, the closeness of visible support. 

"This hasn't changed anything Clint," Phil murmurs, and there's a hesitance in his voice that chills him to the core, that makes him ruffle his scales like a bird lifts dampened feathers as it dries. "You're still an incredible agent, still the best shot I've ever seen. You're still my asset." 

But he's not is he? 

Coulson's asset anymore. 

He's an Avenger, which is better, but different, and also kind of worse. 

Sure, he lives in the Tower now, where he has a whole floor to himself and his own high-tech range and where Coulson has a suite and a glass-walled corner office overlooking the city from about eighty stories up, but that's all different too in not so great ways. They're so much closer – just a few short flights of stairs between them instead of a dozen city blocks – but he feels like they're further apart than ever. There's no cushy purple couch inside Coulson's office anymore, and Clint really doesn't feel like he can just go crash in there for hours at a time under the guise of doing his after-action reports. He's got people invested in him and in his happiness, people without Natasha's tact who will mention it if he brings the man coffee and pastries, or slumps against his shoulder after ops. 

Coulson's not his immediate boss anymore, and that should have been great, but instead of removing a major hurdle in any potential relationship Clint might work up the nerve to suggest, it's just... taken all the intimacy out of it. He kinda feels like he's lost something, and he doesn't know how to get this back.. After Loki, and then later after Phil, he thought he might try, and he had, healing the man slowly with his dragon magic, but things weren't quite back to normal. 

In his heart he knows it's because he's pining, because he'd finally admitted to himself that he was in love with his old handler and hadn't done anything about it, but now, unable to speak or really express himself, hell, unable to even pluck up the courage to come out from under the couch, how is he supposed to do that? 

He's cold. 

He's cold and he hurts and he's tired, and more than anything he just wants to crawl back into Nat's hamper and pull the lid shut after him. 

Well, he wants other things, wants them a lot more, but none of those are things he can have and he knows it. 

So he'll settle for this. Settle for slinking out from under the couch, for ignoring the sound of his name when Coulson calls him and making his escape, getting out of there as quickly as his little legs will carry him and disappearing into the ventilation. It hurts to do it but not as much as staying behind, listening to the Avengers talk him over like the newest baddie or some fancy science project, seeing Phil so uncertain, unsure how to look at him or talk to him or touch him in ways that Coulson never is. 

It was just wrong, and it was all Clint's fault.

**AVAVA**

"Shit."

Phil says it in a flat, deadpan tone, perfectly serious and perfectly heartfelt, not particularly loudly, but every single one of the Avengers turns to look at him with shock written plainly across their faces, even Natasha. 

Calm, competency, staying cool under pressure – that's his _thing._ He never curses, not when other people can hear him. 

Except... 

Well except with Clint apparently. 

He'd cursed earlier today, viciously in fact, when Clint had gone over the edge of the building, when they'd found that little pool of blood on the concrete, but maybe it's not as bad as his welling panic suddenly makes him feel. The weakness he's exposed isn't entirely new or unknown – they'd all seen his face when they couldn't find Clint, seen the way he'd gone a little bit pale and useless. They have to suspect something at the very least, hell, he'd come back from the dead for Clint... 

And that was it wasn't it? 

That was the real reason, the driving force behind it all. Years of friendship, of fondness and respect and admiration, and now this, this love that burns in his chest, heavy and hard like hot rocks, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't even know how much of what he hears Clint can actually understand in his dragon form. 

Enough, obviously – he'd clearly been hurt by what Tony had said about his abilities and his, er, less than dragon-like qualities. But if Phil were to tell him how he really feels... 

A part of him says this is the perfect time, that Clint needs to know – no matter what, Phil loves him, even now, even like this. That he's not disappointed, or angry, or any of the things that he _knows_ Clint is thinking right now. 

Another part of him is terrified. 

How has he let this happen? 

Sighing, Phil feels his shoulders drop where he's kneeling on Stark's hardwood floors, staring down the hallway after his archer who's slithered into a vent, as dextrous and flexible as he's ever been. A small hand lands on the back of his neck, firm and grounding, and perhaps Natasha of all people understands, she who knows him best even if she still says that love is for children. She's too impossible to fool, has seen right through him from the very beginning, likely knows even better than he how deep his feelings go for her best friend and partner in spying. 

It's she that tugs him to his feet. 

"Don't worry too much," she says knowingly as she smooths his jacket over his shoulders, straightens his tie for him. "You know what he's like. None of that's changed, even in that scaly little body of his." 

"You knew," he says, and it's statement of fact, not accusatory. 

"Yes, somewhat. I've only seen it a few times, never for long. He doesn't like to talk about it, doesn't like to show it. He...." 

"He's Clint." 

It's a loaded, many-layered thing, being Clint Barton, but Natasha seems to understand and nods her approval of Phil's statement. For a moment she hesitates, looks him up and down, an intentional show of consideration before she speaks. 

"He wanted to tell you," she says, and Phil feels his heart squeeze inside his chest. "He didn't know how." 

"It doesn't change anything," he protests, as if saying it out loud, saying it to someone makes it more real. 

"Of course it doesn't," Natasha replies, and she sounds almost as if she's scolding him. "I know that. You know that. Clint, he probably knows that too. But..." 

"Yes," Phil sighs, looking over her shoulder at the vent on the wall. "But. He still needs care Natasha. He's hurt, and more than that he's been hit with a magic staff again, had his free will taken away. He's smart enough to make those connections in his mind, even if it's a dragon's mind." 

"He'll be alright. It's similar, yes, but it's not the same. He's strong, and he..." 

She stops there, almost blushes when Phil looks at her, a startling tell. 

"He has something to fight for Coulson," she finally says, and the way she looks at him... "If he hasn't come out by lunch tomorrow I'll get him back for you. Show you how to do it, so you can get him back yourself." 

"How?" 

Natasha smirks, her eyes glinting. 

"You'll see," she says with a chuckle, turning to walk away up the hall. "He may be a dragon, but it's still Clint we're talking about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer's still not working but I stole my dad's ;) Enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

Clint didn't come out for lunch the next day. 

He didn't come out at all before that either. 

He'd thought about going back to Nat after he'd made his escape but after her previous betrayal grabbing him up out of the hamper he wasn't going to risk it. He felt absolutely awful, miserable about... well about everything really, and he wasn't interested in being poked or prodded either physically or emotionally at the time, thank you very much. 

Instead he spent a restless night wandering the Tower vents, stretching muscles he hadn't used in a very long time. A part of him was resentful that Tony kept such a nice building – his instincts were whispering quietly for mice to chase through the shadows, but unfortunately there were none to be had. The rest of him, his human forebrain, was preoccupied enough with its worries that he wasn't too put out. 

He's ashamed to say he sneaks into the ducts running through Coulson's suite. He feels like he shouldn't be there, which is odd because he creeps on Coulson all the time, something the man is well aware of, but right now, like this, it feels different. 

Feels... kinda wrong. 

He does it anyway. 

He's surprised when he finds the man still awake at around three in the morning. Even more surprising than that, he's got a drink in his hand. Wearing sweats and a SHIELD t-shirt, he's sprawled out in an armchair with his feet up on an ottoman, staring at the darkened television screen and swirling something amber in a glass, and the sight puts a bolt of worry and want so sharp through Clint's belly that he shivers. Watching through the grate from across the living room, he almost comes out, almost emerges just so that he can crawl into the man's lap and curl up there like a kitten, but something in his chest warns him that it would be more than himself than for his handler so he resists. 

Doesn't seem fair does it? 

He leaves eventually, when he starts to feel a little too much like a stalker for comfort. He visits Nat, but she's sleeping soundly when he arrives and oddly enough something about that is extremely soothing. Everything's fine, no, nothing wrong here – god bless her stoic Russian heart. He's not sure where he goes after that, just dawdles, explores the ducts he can't normally fit into. By the time morning rolls around he's found a very nice spot above the common room kitchens where the ventilation system filters air to the outside, the sun streaming in through the grate and warming the metal. It's the perfect spot to hole up for a few hours and so he does just that, sleeping sprawled out on his side, catching a few rays, and allowing his wing to heal. 

By the time familiar voices reach his ears and wake him, it's well into afternoon and he's feeling much, much better. 

Yawning widely, baring his teeth, he stretches long and slow, flexing his claws and rattling his spines. The splint on his wing has become an incredible nuisance in the short time he's worn it, and he can feel that the clean, simple break has already half-healed, so he spends a few minutes gnawing away the tape and wooden chopsticks to free himself from the contraption. He's got plenty of room to stretch both wings out to their full breadth, tilts and flaps them a bit. He won't be flying just yet, but everything feels alright and it's reassuring to find that the magic that forced and stuck his shift hasn't affected his accelerated healing factor. 

His scales and claws and spines, they all need a bit of attention, but a bath can wait. 

At the moment something to soothe his rumbling stomach is in far greater demand. 

He intends to go back to his rooms, he does, but he's a curious creature by nature no matter the body he's housed in. The image of Coulson drinking alone the night before is nagging at him too, so really, there's no way he's not going to check in first. He only means to take a peek, a quick glance through the grate looking out over the common floor living room, but his attention is immediately snatched, every sense and every instinct zeroing in on the coffee table with all the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. 

Oooo, those are his, his, _his!_

Slinking quickly through the vents to the wide-mouthed grate he'd accessed the day before, he drops through into the hallway, goes flat to his belly, and creeps forward at a predator's stalk.

**AVAVA**

Phil is unforgivably irritable the next day.

A very large part of it is due to lack of sleep, of feeling just a bit hangovery after his night of brooding and single glass of good scotch on an empty and unsettled stomach. Another part is the fact that Clint had yet to emerge from the vents by the time Phil had gotten himself showered and shaved and dressed, gotten himself presentable enough for mixed company. Breakfast came and went, then lunch, and still no sign of the archer – either man or dragon – and slowly the Avengers began to go back about their own individual business as though nothing at all had changed. 

It was probably wrong to resent them for it but he does, even as he realizes that it's probably for the best. 

Steve and Natasha spar, Tony and Bruce disappear into the labs to continue pouring over the staff, Thor goes off to do whatever it is that Thor does, and Phil is left to wander at loose ends without a clue as to what he should be doing. 

An hour after sandwiches, when he's landed on the couch of the common room with his tablet in a desperate attempt to distract himself with work, Natasha finally arrives to rescue him and just in time too, because Stark has flopped down in an armchair across from him with a look on his face that's far too intelligent for Phil's liking. 

He's skeptical when she shows him her plan for luring Clint out of the vents. 

Rudely skeptical, probably. 

He's never known Natasha's plans to fail. 

Sill, he isn't very confident in the trap she's set, but five minutes later when the enormous bowl of jelly beans she's set out on the coffee table explodes, sending Stark shooting toward the ceiling with a shriek like a girl, he has to re-evaluate his opinion. 

The little dragon had dive-bombed the bowl so fast Phil hadn't even seen him, just caught a shiny flash of purple before the brightly colored candies went flying with a crash and a rattle, earning a flinch out of even Natasha, who must've been expecting it. When his heart's stopped hammering and Stark's breathing evens out, he can hear a low, purring rumble and the distinct sound of happy chewing, and after a moment's silence it actually startles a relieved laugh out of him. 

"Damn it Barton," Stark growls, but it's fond and relieved in its own right so Phil doesn't call him on it, not even when the man rolls his eyes and wanders off in an faux-offended huff. 

Leaning forward, Phil peers into the bowl, sees the jelly beans shifting and surging inside and feels a well of fondness of his own warm his chest. Clint's entirely invisible from his position at the bottom of the bowl, completely buried beneath the little mountain of candy, and as Phil carefully lifts it from the table and settles it into his lap, Natasha smirks and gets to her feet. 

"Keep an eye on him," she says, touching Phil's shoulder as she passes round behind him. "You know what he's like on a sugar rush – I'd hate to see the destruction he could manage as a dragon, even a little one." 

This comment causes Phil to pale and his heart to skip another beat but Natasha just laughs and disappears down the hallway, off to do something else now that her promise has been met. Glaring after her, Phil thanks his lucky stars Clint convinced her to come in all those years ago, more grateful than ever for her help, no matter how blunt and judgmental the accompanying advice may be. 

Feeling suddenly rather more content, Phil bites back a silly grin, sure that he looks like an absolute fool grinning down at his lap and not really giving a damn. The jelly beans are swimming round the bowl like a miniature whirlpool, the edge of a wing or the tip of a spiny tail surfacing every so often, and Phil watches mesmerized with something like childish fascination. Eventually he can't hold it back anymore and he reaches into the bowl, brushes his fingertips across the turbulent surface, candy smooth and a little waxy as they rush around the sensitive pads of his fingers like water. 

Clint seems to sense a disturbance in his force because suddenly everything goes very still and the cheerful snacking sounds cease. Phil freezes as best he can, hopes he hasn't done something wrong, but then very slowly, with a little rattle, Clint pops his head up from amongst the beans, eyes huge and dark and beautiful, the pupils as thin as a blade. 

Beautiful. 

The spines on the top of his head lay back flat against his scales the way a cat's ears might and it should make him look dangerous, angry or sharply frightened, but the way he tilts his head curiously, the way he holds a pale pink jelly bean in his mouth, well, really he's just damned adorable. 

Claws clicking just out of sight, the little dragon gulps down his bean in one go and licks his lips with a thin, forked tongue, fast as lightning and just as nervous, but Phil just offers him half a smile. 

"Alright Barton?" he asks with plain-faced affection. 

Tittering nervously for a minute, Clint seems to debate before chirruping and nodding his head in the affirmative. Clambering precariously to the top of the bowl, he sits down and wraps his tail around his toes before lifting his wing, extending it carefully and flexing it back and forth like plane flaps. The splint is noticeably missing and he doesn't seem to be in any pain, his movements careful but not hesitant, and Phil hadn't realized how worried he'd been about that bit until now, when there's a huge weight off his chest and suddenly he can breathe again. 

"Very pretty," he hears himself say, his mouth dry as Clint looks from his wing to Phil's face as if awaiting a verdict, and he could swear he sees the little dragon blush. 

At least the way his spines shiver all the way down his spine seems to mean the same thing. 

"Can I..." 

He doesn't mean to ask, doesn't mean to reach out, but he does and only a part of it is really wanting to make sure that his accident-prone archer is truly ok. The rest of it, the rest is a sense of utter enchantment, ensnared by that magic that Thor spoke of so eloquently the day before, and he feels an incredible sense of awe as Clint creeps slowly into his palm, looking up with ducked head as if he's not sure he's really welcome. 

Putting the bowl aside, Phil slouches down on the couch cushions and holds Clint safely against his chest. Carefully cradled in the palm of his hand, the little dragon lifts his feet hesitantly one by one before turning a single circle and curling up against Phil's fingers, submitting to gentle strokes along all the lines of his new body. Phil feels oddly humbled by the whole experience, and when Clint starts to rumble gently like a miniature sports engine any wrongness that lingers within the moment seems to disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint wakes up a short time later and promptly panics. 

Phil has fallen asleep and is halfway slumped against the arm of the couch, his fingers curled around Clint's little body and his heart thumping along steadily under his feet. He's nice and warm from the man's shared body heat and surrounded by the clean, ink-and-coffee scent of him, and he's never felt safer in his life. 

See: panic. 

It's stupid, he knows that, but it's stupider to play at this, to hope, to think that _maybe..._

He's tried before see? 

Cause as much as he likes to pretend he is, he's not half as dumb as he looks. 

He'd known in his heart that he was in love with Phil Coulson, almost since the very beginning, even if he'd fought it tooth and nail before Loki. Then Phil had come back and he'd tried, and he'd been more honest and he'd... 

He shouldn't think about it. 

That way lies madness and all that jazz. 

He'd tried. 

He'd tried to woo Phil before, after he'd come back and after he'd healed, tried to court him the way a dragon should. He'd brought him coffee, Phil's favorite thing in the world followed closely by paperwork and silk ties. He'd fed him, proved he could provide even if it was take-out or safe-house sandwiches and not something Clint had hunted and killed himself. Hell he's even shown Phil his hoard, and that's something no dragon ever does unless he's serious. 

But he'd been back from the dead and Clint had been done fucking around. 

He'd laid out his entire collection of trick arrows – more than two hundred in all, most of them ones he'd designed and fabricated himself with a little help from Tony Stark – and stood there nervous and shy, but Phil had just chuckled fondly and told him he'd lend him some tape so he could label them all properly. 

Clint had managed a smile but was a little too crushed to laugh along with him, instead picking out a little stone arrowhead from a box of smaller treasures he kept secret and pressing it into Phil's hand before he'd left. 

It had hurt. 

The memory of that hurt is enough to have him slinking off Phil's chest and down onto the couch. Clutching at the cushions, his claws picking at the fabric, he clings to the edge and contemplates the way down, his wing still a bit too strained for full-slight. He's about to jump when Phil shifts and hums, mumbles in his sleep. 

"Help him," he mutters under his breath, his shoulders pushing back against the couch. "Somebody... somebody help Barton. Clint. Clint!" 

And suddenly _everything_ hurts. 

That... 

He knows Phil cares about him ok, but he didn't realize... 

And then he feels like a shit, can't even reassure the man... 

He warbles. 

Chirps, as loud as he can. 

But it doesn't work, so he tries again. Tries something else. Hops back up onto Phil's chest, lets himself fall a little more heavily than he normally would to jolt him. The man jumps, startles awake and comes jolting upright so fast that Clint goes toppling off his chest and onto the floor with a squeak. He manages to land on his feet which is nice, both for his bruised limbs and his bruised ego, and by the time he fully rights himself and shakes out his scales Phil has already hit his knees beside him, his hands hovering like a protective cage above his head. 

"Shit! Clint, I'm so sorry, are you... are you ok? I mean, stupid question, but..." 

Clint blinks, tilts his head, surprised by the way Phil is rambling. That's not normal, not like him at all. He makes a little trilling sound, ruffles his scales again like a bird, from his nose to the tip of his tail, wiggling his butt and flicking the sinuous fifth appendage theatrically. Phil doesn’t laugh but at least he breathes, his shoulders dropping and his heartbeat, the one that Clint can hear thumping away in his chest like a base drum against his ears starts to slow. 

Sighing heavily, Phil sits back on his heels and drops his head forward, scrubs his hands over his face wearily. Clint makes another curious sound at the back of his throat, worried about his handler and his strange behavior. He smells funny – worried – and it's bitter and acrid on him like the lingering smoke of a house fire, and more than anything in that moment, more than he wants to slink away and hide, Clint wants to comfort the man, wants to hug him. 

But he can't, so he does the next best thing. 

Shyly, with great, painful embarrassment, he reaches for the magic deep inside his belly, the heat, and very slowly grows himself as big as he can go. Not that big of course, hardly big at all, just the size of a fat little dog, but it's big enough to do what he needs to do. Creeping up close, he curls himself around Phil's knees, drags along his body like a cat until he can lay his head in Phil's lap and rumble quietly, like a purr. 

Phil finally raises his head, drops his hand to Clint's back and trails his fingers along the tips of his spines, almost like it's normal, almost like he knows that Clint won't mind. 

"Haven't been sleeping well lately," he murmurs, and Clint blinks, surprised not by the admission but by the fact that Phil had made it. "Nights are too long." 

He's rubbing at his chest absently with one hand, the thick scar hidden beneath his shirt, and Clint knows exactly what he means. It hurts sometimes, the endless dark, the terrible solitary stretch of it. Dragons are solitary creatures by nature but Clint's not a proper dragon, and as much as his father tried to starve the need for touch straight out of him with slaps and brutal beatings it hadn't worked. Often more than anything all Clint wants is someone to sleep beside, to curl up against and share body heat and heartbeats with. 

He's only ever known one thing that cures it, something he's never shared with anyone before. 

Taking a careful bite of Phil's sweats, he gets to his feet and tugs twice, pulls at him and then darts off two or three yards before bounding back, chirping and whistling cheerfully. Phil manages a chuckle, a poorly hidden smile turning the corners of his mouth as he pushes to his feet. 

"What's the matter Lassie, Timmy down the well?" he asks and Clint huffs, gives him the eye. 

Sometimes the guy's humor misses by a good mile, but hey, nobody's perfect. 

Flicking his tail, Clint trots over to the wide glass doors that lead out to the communal balcony, the sun only just beginning to set, the sky outside shot through with greens and pinks and oranges. He looks between Phil and the doors several times until the super-secret-agent catches on, pulls it open and gestures him through before following him out into the warm, late-spring air. Clint rocks back and forth on his legs, limbering up before stretching each wing one at a time, testing the injury that's very nearly healed by now, then leaps up onto the top railing, balancing delicately on the edge and staring down the hundreds and hundreds of feet to the ground below. 

"Clint..." 

He lifts his head, turns to look back at Phil curiously only to find the man staring down as well, looking strangely pale. 

"Are you sure that's a good idea? Can you even..." 

Clint squeaks, chortles a dragon's laugh as his forked tongue flickers out between his teeth, and rolls dramatically over the edge.

**AVAVA**

He flies for what feels like hours, a lifetime that's over far too quickly. Up here so high there's no one to see him, no one to take his picture or call the media, just one more perk of Stark's extravagance. Up here above all the other buildings, above the glass and steel all there is is clouds and sun and air, wide expanses of bank and turn and slipstream, hover and roll. He dives, climbs higher and higher before rolling over and tucking his wings in close to his body, dropping like an arrow down to the balcony where Phil stands transfixed, a look of aw on his face and it's perfect, freedom he hasn’t had in a long time.

Trapped as he is in this body by the magic of the staff, he still tires far faster than he normally would. The muscles in his wing, while strong enough to easily keep him aflight, start to twinge and he's had enough falls in his human body to know when enough's enough. He might be half a dragon but a one hundred story drop might test even his healing abilities. Gliding smoothly back down to the balcony, he lights delicately on the safety railing, throws back his shoulders and preens, just a little. 

"The Amazing Hawkeye," Phil says, and it's teasing and fond and Clint doesn't even bother to blush because it's too nice. 

It's a good moment, light, easy, and Phil opens his mouth like he's going to say something else but then somebody's stomach rumbles, loud and insistent, and at first Clint isn't sure who's it is but then it happens again and there's a sharp little pang somewhere deep down and oh yeah, it's definitely him. 

"It's dinner time anyway," Phil chuckles, turning away to pull open the patio doors and allow him inside, but instead of trotting through Clint shrinks down again, happy that he at least has that much control because he's always liked the tingle of growing and shrinking with every breath. When he's approximated the size of a small parrot he takes a nice, floating leap off the railing and glides across the balcony to land on Phil's shoulder. 

The man goes abruptly still for all of a moment, surprised, sugary dark like burning caramel, but he doesn't jump or jerk, doesn't dislodge Clint from his perch. He's careful with his claws of course, clings to the fabric of his t-shirt but makes sure he doesn't prick his skin, doesn't draw blood. Phil licks his lips and looks like he's about to say something but changes his mind, steps carefully back into the common room, and all the Avengers are there and it's like all the fun gets sucked out of the room because suddenly it's a roomful of people staring at him, reminding him that he's stuck in this foreign body, that he shouldn't be happy about this, that he shouldn't be sitting on his handler's shoulder like some sort of pet, taking liberties... 

He hates his brain sometimes, especially in his dragon's body. It runs on instinct, focused on what he wants and little else, certainly not what's proper, not all the _shoulds_ and _should nots._ He's easily distracted, easily affected... 

He hates being stared at. 

Stark and Rogers, Bruce and Thor, even Nat, all staring, all for different reasons, but all staring... 

Clint goes slinking off Phil's shoulder feeling like he's being laughed at but Coulson's always been good, always been fast. He catches Clint round the middle and tucks him firmly under his arm like some kind of fat, recalcitrant cat, his fingertips tickling against his sides. 

"I don't think so," he says, firm but quiet, so that only he can hear. "Not again." 

Clint narrows his eyes, flicks his tongue out at him, but settles down with a grumble. 

It's a pretty comfy place to be anyway. 

"Chow's on," Nat says, nodding at the table where she's setting places. 

Bruce is behind the island at the stove, a promising sight, and there's delicious smells bubbling up to reinforce it, earthy and spicy. Clint's stomachs rumble again and lurch and he wiggles his toes happily. Phil chuckles, gives him a pat and carries him across the room, pulls out a chair for himself and sets him down on the table at his side. It's a little weird, a little awkward, like a dog having a place at the table and Clint's never done this, never been so open with what he is, never gone about his day in his dragon form like it's normal, but if he ignores the way Stark is staring at him like he's some kind of science project it's not _horrible._

Especially when Bruce starts doling out massive helpings of his famous yellow curry. 

_Yum._

Only, Stark is putting a dish of raw meat in front of him and the scent of it, the copper tang of blood and the deep, glistening red of it threatens to throw him into a flashback so hard and so quick it makes him dizzy. 

His father forced this on him as a kid. 

Gutted rabbits in front of him and tried to force the slippery bits and pieces down his throat whether he was in his dragon form or not. 

It was hideous and traumatic and brings familiar, acrid bile stinging into the back of his throat and he whimpers, shrinks back from the plate and hunkers down, his spines standing up all along his back defensively like he thinks it will attack him and it's wrong, it's all wrong, but then Natasha's hand is there, taking the plate away and putting the empty saucer from beneath her teacup in front of him and it's flat and white and clean and suddenly he can breathe again. A minute later Phil is transferring a nice big scoop of curry and rice from his own plate to Clint's and it's like the whole thing never happened. 

So maybe his dragon brain isn't so bad. 

"Well if Barton doesn't want it, pass it down," Tony calls from the other end of the table, making 'gimme' hands. "No point in wasting good tartare." 

And he's right. 

It's the best of the best, thinly sliced raw steak that probably costs more than Clint's week's-worth of groceries, and in his own way Tony was trying to be nice. His idea of friendship had always been to throw money at you, and yeah, he absolutely _was_ getting better, but he wasn't quite there yet. He was trying to be considerate, and as he licks curry from the sharp, plated edge of his jaw Clint makes up his mind to thank him somehow. 

Looking around the table, listening to the clink of cutlery, the chatter and cheerful laughter, he realizes how deep his bonds with these people run. They're family now, more and better than Clint's ever had, and this is strange and new to all of them, even to him, but they're trying. They might stare and they might fail but it's not for lack of trying, not for cruelty. They're here with him, have accepted this part of him with more good grace than he would have hoped for, and he thinks that maybe, if he _is_ stuck like this forever, it might not be the worst thing in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Stark is a problem. 

So is Phil, but Stark is the smaller, more easily solved problem. 

As Clint muses on this phenomenon, he thinks the genius would probably laugh his ass off if he ever found out that was how Clint felt, no matter what the circumstances. Tony was used to being the center of attention, the brightest belle at the ball – Clint's not so sure how he would feel about playing second fiddle. 

He's projecting, he knows. He understands his own brain, his dragon instincts well enough to realize what's going on. The Avengers, they're his pseudo-family, and he'd attached himself to them long before that idiot with the gold-n-glowy stick came along to jam him up in his scales. That means something to Clint - maybe... maybe not to a _dragon,_ but to _Clint._  

So he feels bad, having sort of freaked out at dinner and rejected something Tony gave him and he knows it's stupid because the genius doesn't seem put out by it, wouldn't have been upset with Clint-the-human, but it still makes him slink around and avoid the guy that evening. He's turned his nose up at a gift, an expensive one, and his possessive lizard brain marks this as a slight, a terrible insult, never mind the messed-up connotations from his childhood that had come along with it. 

So yeah. 

Avoidance. 

He doesn't really mean to but when the Avengers adjourn from the dinner table to the common room to watch a movie he slips away from both Phil _and_ Tony and launches himself up into Natasha's lap. She's tucked into the corner of the sectional and graciously allows him to wriggle his way into the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt, wraps her arms around him so that he can stick his head out and rest it on her elbow for a good view of the TV. He's not sure whether either of the two men notice the way he'd crept around them, but nothing slips by his red-headed friend. She frowns at him but when he hunches in on himself she shows mercy and leaves him alone. 

At least for a while. 

Up comes to an end and Tony calls to Jarvis to get Wreck-It Ralph on the cue, and nearly all the rest of the Avengers head into the kitchen for ice cream. Nat pulls him out of her pocket by the tail and tries to drop him in Phil's lap but he managed to outmaneuver her by snagging his claws in her sleeve, clinging to her arm like a koala until he's been carried safely into the hallway. There, confidant that Natasha will grab him a scoop of Bruce's matcha ice cream with hot fudge sauce, he lets himself drop gracefully to the floor and trots toward the elevators. 

"Shall I drop you at your floor Agent Barton?" Jarvis asks, and Clint chirps an affirmative, though he isn't sure the AI speaks Dragonese. 

Jarvis is either fluent or pretty good at making assumptions, because he drops Clint at the appropriate floor, then opens the doors for him all the way into his bedroom. There, Clint climbs the bedspread and hops onto the endtable, grabbing a little round tin of bow wax in his teeth before heading back down to the common rooms. 

He's met by a stupidly domestic scene spread out before him, his friends all grouped up around the television, sprawled across the furniture. There's a warmth that pervades the space, enhanced by Clint's subtle heat vision, but he can feel it in his chest better than he can see it. The Avengers and their friends sit in bunches and pairs – Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey  all crammed into a loveseat, Bruce and Maria Hill on the floor in bean bags, Steve curled up in an oversized recliner – and the scent of sugar tickles in the air. 

Thor and Jane are sipping strawberry pop-tart milkshake from the same glass through a couple of crazy straws. 

Tony's got a gallon of mint-chocolate-chip in his lap and looks pleased as punch whenever Rhodey or Pepper reaches over to dip into it. 

Nat's got a waffle-cone of raspberry ripple, and Steve, who doesn't like ice cream for obvious reasons, has a handful warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies from the bakery the Tower has on retainer. 

It's all very child-like, very sweet, and Clint kind of just wants to roll around in it, wants to be human again so he can rest his head in Natasha's lap and tuck his toes under Phil's thigh like he always does. 

Phil? 

Phil's watching him slip back in with a concerned but bemused tilt to the corner of his mouth, with a bowl of butter pecan ice cream with maple syrup topping in his hand. It's not his favorite; his favorite are Rocket Pops, but Tony had made a crack about him sucking Captain America's dick one time and he'd never been able to enjoy them the same way again. Phil had punished him soundly for that too, had somehow managed to slap a Hello Kitty sticker onto the ass of the Mark VII, which Tony had worn for a week before picking up a tabloid speculating about Iron Kitty. 

Clint thinks that might have been the day he fully realized just how much he'd fallen for his handler, just how far gone he was. 

One flying leap later he's got his snout buried in chocolatey-green deliciousness as Ralph starts to game-hop in search of a hero's medal on the screen. The ice cream is smooth and cold and tickles the heat receptors on the roof of his mouth, and when he's licked the bowl clean he croaks a little burp that puffs with ice crystals into the air. Finished, he shakes out the muscles in his legs, stretches his wings, then picks up his bow wax and nudges his way beneath Natasha's arm. 

"No, go away pest," she scolds gently, licking a drop of ice cream from her wrist as she nibbles around the edge of her cone. "Ask Coulson if you want a belly rub." 

If Clint could blush as a dragon he would have then, all his spines drooping like they've melted. As it is, he can feel the fire simmering in the pit of his belly being stoked liked stirred coals. He manages to glance in Phil's direction without spontaneously combusting but it's a near thing, and he doesn't think he could be more shocked when he sees Phil spreading a pillow out over his lap, patting it in invitation. 

He hesitates. 

Human Clint would have laughed it off, made a joke out of it and slipped away so he didn't have to suffer having what he wanted without having it at all, but dragons are jealous, gluttonous creatures. It they're offered something they want they take it, and Clint has wanted Phil for a very, very long time. 

Slinking forward, he creeps carefully up onto the pillow, keeping his wings tucked in close to his body. He gives over the tin shyly, watches with cautious interest as Phil flips it around between his fingers. He recognizes it, of course he does, after all these years working with Hawkeye, the clear polish with the faint, banana scent. Clint works it into the limbs of his bow religiously, keeping the wood strong and supple, but he realizes as Phil pulls a pristine, white handkerchief out of his pocket that he's made a mistake. 

He should have grabbed the other, the hard cake of string wax, which isn't as nice but would have worked just as well on his diamond-hard scales. He squeaks sharply as Phil opens the container, drawing curious glances from the rest of the Avengers that cause him to cower, but Phil just chuckles and rubs him under the chin with his fingertip. 

Clint tries to resist it, he does, but Phil's found a good spot and there's not much he can except shiver into a little puddle of dragon-mush in the man's lap. 

Magic hands, he's telling you. 

Dabbing the corner of the handkerchief into the wax, Phil sets it aside and gently turns Clint over onto his side, starting with the scales behind his elbow and working toward his tail. His hands are confidant and sure, not too rough, and Clint's soon reduced to purring under his touch. Natasha casts him a smug, superior look but Clint ignores her – this is Coulson after all. 

He's not sure what he was worried about. 

Because Coulson takes care of his assets, doesn't he? Takes care of Strike Team Delta?  

He always has - what else should Clint have expected from him? 

No, perhaps it really is Tony who is the bigger problem – Clint knows how to make things up to Phil anyway. Tony though, Tony he'll have to think on, because while he knows the kinds of things Tony loves – a problem to solve, a puzzle – he's not so sorry that he's willing to play pin cushion in his lab for hours on end. 

He'll think of something. 

He's smart, he'll figure it out. 

Just... as soon as he... 

**AVAVA**

 

Clint wakes up later that night in his own suite, in his own bed. He might be irritable about it if he weren't curled up in a nest made from Phil Coulson's favorite Rangers hoodie, but he is and there's no discounting it. He doesn't know what it means – in fact his human brain is quite puzzled by this turn of events – but he's not human at the moment and so it's easier than it should be to lose the thread of his confusion. It's two, maybe three in the morning, a good witching hour, and Clint's got an itch under his skin that he can't shake. Like a cat, he goes tearing through the Tower at top speeds, running, leaping, flying up to the peak of the vaulted ceiling and back down again until he's exhausted himself and wants nothing more than to fly. 

Stalking shadows, he hunts and pounces and plays in the dark until he reaches the french doors off the patio, waiting patiently until Jarvis slides them open with a pressurized hiss. Skipping out into the moonlight, he skirts the edge of Stark's in-ground pool and takes a running jump over the safety rail, falling into the night. 

He loves this. 

There's nothing more freeing than a fall. Nothing more exhilarating than streamlining his body into a living, breathing arrow and diving for the earth. 

He holds his breath as he lets himself hurtle, faster, faster still, the night air cool and clean and stinging in his eyes and his nose. His hearts pound in his chest like thunder, electricity zipping through his toes like lightning, a tiny storm in the dark as he drops, thirty stories, forty, fifty. When he starts to hit the lights of the city below he pulls up, snaps out his wings to catch himself and hang, weightless, motionless for all of a moment. 

Time stops when he has the chance to fly. 

It's the same feeling he gets when he takes a running leap off a collapsing building. 

As a dragon, with natural instincts and wings to catch him, he can lie back and enjoy that moment. 

He doesn't think he loves anything so much as he loves this moment, his brain all turned off and his body ruled by the very dragon heart of him. Flight is the draw of an arrow, the easy breath, the most base parts of it all, the action themselves, and he revels in it. 

Ducking and weaving, swooping and swerving, he makes the climb back up, higher and higher before dropping again, riding the tumble another ten or twelve times before he gets bored. It's fun, don't get him wrong, it's perfect and wonderful and all the good things, but it gets old after a while. 

Lonely. 

Maybe he could get Tony to race with him – he bets he could beat the Iron Armor. 

Scanning the building for heat signatures, Clint easily locks on to the lab floors, all lit up bright. No doubt Tony is still down there, working hard on some new thing or another. Gliding lazily toward the windows, Clint plots how he can get the genius to play with him, to forgive him for what he'd done earlier. That usually works. Tony's always up for a whooping at Mario Kart, maybe Clint could... 

Wait. 

Mario Kart... 

Ooohhh, good idea, good idea, good idea! 

Pinpointing Tony's exact location in the labs, Clint makes a wide, arcing swoop and hits the glass hard, suctioning himself to outside of the window, the genius's shriek like music in his ears. 


End file.
